Four Times the Musketeers Weren't Safe Sleeping and One Time they Were
by bearsrawesome
Summary: Five one-shots of whumpage and brotherly fluffiness as our Musketeers try to get some sleep and are disturbed.
1. Aramis

**Heya fans! My newest Musketeers fic since I just can't stop writing for this fandom. Thanks to everyone who's reviewed on my other fics since you guys are the reason I write and my major inspiration for all these fics. I am working on a second epiloguish chapter to For Friends and France but I have to go to Kenya in less than a week and won't be back until 24th July. I'm planning on posting one of these one-shots every day until it's finished but please review anyway cause I love hearing back from you! So my first one of these types of fics and I hope you like it. There's a healthy dose of all round Musketeer whumpage. At the end of the fic is a little note about next chapter. Enjoy!**

The white quilt of ice crystals were deceiving, covering the wet mud, muck and twigs that littered the wood's floor. Trees, grey giants drained of life, stuck out their gnarled and twisted hands over the small group of twelve Musketeers, concealing the navy blue sky that sparkled with silver pinpricks of starlight. It was cold, a chilling breeze darting beneath their wooden prison and made the skin prickle and the hair rise as though electrified. A small fire crackled in the centre of their makeshift circle, sending small fireflies of orange light into the air and bringing bright, burning colour to the damp and dark wood. The horses snorted from their ties, breath curling in grey, smoky clouds into the deep silence of the bleak winter night as Musketeers moved around them, draping warm fabric over their loyal friends to protect them from the burrowing tendrils of cold and iciness from the wind.

"You alright, Mis?"

A hand clapped down of Aramis' shoulder and the medic jumped in surprise, hand instinctively drifting to his musket at his side as he whirled to face the slightly alarmed face of his friend. Porthos held out his hands placating, dark eyes locked onto Aramis' as he watched Aramis deflate with a deep, relieved sigh.

"Sorry…you just startled me."

Porthos tilted his head to the side, to examine his expression "You really are edgy, aren't you?"

"It's just…"Aramis closed his eyes and the rush of memories that followed his small prompt of thought "It's so much like _then_."

"Hey, 'Mis." Porthos gripped either side of his shoulders tightly and forced the other man to look at him "It ain't like it was then. We're not there. Nothing's gonna happen."

Aramis laughed half-heartedly, head bowing to stare at the floor "I know, I know. But I just can't help listening for the sound of horses' hooves, waiting for them to emerge from the darkness."

"Well, you don't need to, yeah? You didn't have me and Athos at your side that time, but now you do; so you can calm down."

Aramis met Porthos' eyes again, seeing the almost pleading look in them as he noted the lines of worry in Porthos' face. He took a deep breath, feeling the cold deep in his lungs and refreshing him with a burst of clean oxygen before nodding slowly. The larger man looked at him suspiciously for a moment, then, seemingly coming to the conclusion that his words had sunken in, released Aramis' arms.

"It was a long ride, 'Mis. Get some sleep."

Aramis allowed a small smile to slip onto his features "You too, Porthos. And…thank you."

"No problem, 'Mis." Porthos called over his shoulder as he walked away, in the direction of a lonesome figure stood staring at them from across the fire and his protégé sat on the ground beside him.

With that reassurance ringing in his ears and painted on his heart, Aramis removed his belt with only a touch of hesitancy- placing his knife beneath his pillow in a fashion similar to Athos, just in case-then slowly lowered himself onto the stiff material of his 'mattress', tucking the thick, blankets under his chin and rolling onto his side. Slowly, Aramis allowed him to drift into the unknown of sleep.

The memories of that dreaded night five years ago haunted Aramis' nightmares on the best of nights and surrounded by those same conditions seemed only to intensify them as he could once again feel the sensations on his skin and the cold deep in his bones.

Marsac was running when he awoke with a start, sweat icy on his skin as he woke with a puff of air, eyes wide with fear and panic. The sounds of men screaming and the clashing of metal cut off like the smashing of a mirror, the images shattering like glass and their last whispers left unfinished, a promise of another encore of murder and death.

The silence of the night instantly brought Aramis from any lingering sleepiness and he narrowed his eyes at the shadow above him. The dance of firelight across a long silver surface made his heart cramp as he rolled sideways and there was a whoosh of air as it sailed narrowly passed his side, where his heart had been just moments ago. Aramis' hand automatically reached under his pillow as he grabbed the blade beneath, already rushing up with it and plunging the weapon deep into his opponent's ribcage with a sickening crunch and a moan of pain.

Aramis took one glimpse of the hooded man before screaming "Bandits! We're under attack!"

That was when chaos erupted; there were shouts and screams as the Musketeers were descended on and then the clatter as swords were pulled from their sheaths. Aramis stood in shock as it happened in front of him, the other images of his past laid upon those he was witnessing and his only thoughts were filled of his friends.

Darting down, he rolled beneath a man's blade to grab his belt before pulling the musket from its place and taking the shot. The man crumbled to the ground boneless, but the Spaniard was already moving forward, sword unsheathed in a moment as the shadows took the form of men and sprung out to attack him. Around him, Musketeers and bandits alike were being slain, the newest of the King's soldiers unprepared for the suddenness of the attack as the Musketeers engaged, half-dressed with their assailants. Aramis parried and struck with the ease of years of practice, cutting down his challengers with swift precision as he moved round to assist his brothers.

A loud battle cry made him turn around as a man went to drive a blade into his gut but another flash of silver blocked him and a figure stepped out from the shadows and chaos to cut down their opponent before the mortal blow could land.

"Athos!" Aramis cried in both surprise and relief as his saviour turned to face him.

"Move!" Athos pushed him forward, voice sounding more alarmed than usual "I can't find Porthos or d'Artagnan!"

Heart pounding, Aramis whirled round and listened to the fighting around him, hawk-like eyes scanning those around him for any signs of his dear comrades. Movement in the darkness caught his eye as he watched an outline spin round and drop to one knee, their blade burying itself deep into the gut of another bandit before he was attacked again by another. The move was enough to ignite a spark of familiarity and Aramis pointed over to the battle on the outskirts of their camp.

"There! D'Artagnan!"

Both men moved together, swords spinning skilfully as they engaged with anyone stupid enough to cross their path as they hurried toward their youngest brother. A minute later and they arrived just in time to see d'Artagnan stood protectively over an unconscious Porthos, sword dripping crimson as he clutched his side and levelled a dangerous look at the bandits closing in on them. Aramis threw himself into the fighting with a cry of rage, slicing into the backs of the men with a speed almost inhuman as Athos followed with quiet wrath.

"Aramis…" d'Artagnan sighed in relief, his exhaustion showing as his knees buckled beneath him and he fell forward, Aramis reaching out to catch him as the young man dropped.

"D'Artagnan!"

Athos crouched down beside Porthos as the Gascon's fingers curled surprisingly tightly around Aramis' leather jacket and he gasped weakly "Look after Porthos! I'm alright."

With a brief, silent exchange with Athos, they switched positions; Athos moving to help d'Artagnan stand and Aramis dropping to his knees as he rolled Porthos over, heart in his mouth. There was a large bump on the side of his head, a gash leaking blood steadily into his dark curls and Aramis almost smiled at the consolation that Porthos was alive.

Behind them the battle was already dying down, the skill and experience of the Musketeers winning despite the odds as the last of the enemy fled amongst the trees.

"Is Porthos alright?" d'Artagnan's fragile question made Aramis' head turn.

Aramis didn't hide the happiness in his voice "Yes, just a concussion, I think he's going to be okay."

"You did well, d'Artagnan." Athos praised softly, the Gascon's arm behind his neck as he balanced the boy "Porthos is safe, now we need to treat your wound."

As the two moved away slowly, there was a loud groan and Aramis' gaze snapped down as Porthos' eyes opened, bleary and glazed.

"'Mis? That you?"

"Yes."

"Am I dead?"

"No, you've just got a nasty concussion."

"Oh…I was wondering why death hurt so much." Porthos pushed himself up into a sitting position, Aramis' hand against his back to help him "Is d'Art okay?"

"A wound to his side but that's getting treated." Aramis informed him with a warm smile, medical eyes already watching Porthos' responses.

"Great," Porthos moaned with a wince "Now I owe the kid, too."

The injured man raised his hand to touch his head wound but Aramis smacked it away "No touching!"

"Alright!" Porthos squeaked in protest, cringing as Aramis' gently, trained fingers prodded at the laceration "Is Athos okay?"

"Unharmed. He's helping d'Artagnan at the moment."

"And you?"

Aramis froze unintentionally at the question before forcing himself to keep moving "I'm fine."

"Yeah right." Porthos scoffed and Aramis was tempted to push just a little on the wound "You're pale as a sheet and shaking; 'course you're fine."

Aramis stopped his ministrations and lifted his hands to stare at the obvious tremor, feeling hot and cold all at once as he realised he was in shock. He sat back down in the snow, ignoring the bite through his breeches as he took a few deep breaths and felt the silent tears rolling down his cheeks.

For a minute or two, Aramis didn't speak until finally, broken, hushed words spilt from his lips "I-It was Savoy all over again."

Porthos looked up at him almost surprised by the sudden honesty, still slightly off-balance himself and feeling his injuries replaced by the vice around his heart as he stared into the Spaniard's brown eyes, painful by the faraway look held within.

"I woke up from a nightmare…being there…and then it turned into here. All I could think was that I couldn't lose any more brothers. I couldn't stand it."

"I'm sorry, Aramis." Porthos confided guiltily, hand reaching out to touch the other man's leg "But we're all safe…we're not going to leave you, not like Marsac, not like last time. We're still with you; you're not alone."

Aramis hastily brushed the water from his cheeks with a sniff "You don't need to apologise, Porthos. You didn't know this would happen. I should just be thankful to God that he answered my prayers and you are all alive."

"We'll talk about this later though, yeah? When we're back in Paris? You, me and Athos and a bottle of wine; like last time."

"And d'Artagnan?"

Porthos grinned, warmed by the thought of how close the boy had gotten to them all to be trusted with such an honour as Aramis' show of vulnerability "And d'Artagnan."

"Well, then." Aramis climbed to his feet, extending his hand to Porthos "Till then, we'll keep going and bandage you up. God knows Athos is terrible at stitching; we can't let d'Art suffer alone, can we?"

"Sounds good,'Mis. Sounds good."

**Next Chapter: Athos- Waking up to a fiery grave. The inn is burning and one of their number is lost within.**


	2. Athos

**Hiya, here's my second installation! So obverjoyed with all the lovely, fantastic, great feedback I've gotten from you so please continue telling me how I'm doing! To that guest who didn't like that I referred to Porthos as a 'mulatto', I didn't at all mean it in an offensive way and if anyone was upset by it I have changed the words I think but do point it out if I've missed any. I love Porthos to bits and it was merely a description of his characteristics, which are rather unlike the others. Anyway, just felt the dying need to apologise. Please review and I hope you enjoy!**

Olivier Athos de la Fere awoke with a start, beads of cold sweat dripping down his face and his body tense from the horror and fear of his nightmare. In his mind, Athos was still in his living room, with its expensive furniture, that ancient mirror hanging over the worn, marble fireplace. The storm was raging outside the window, rain pelting the glass and lightening flashing in tandem with rumbling thunder that seemed to shake the entire house. The image of his younger brother, his dear Thomas pulled against his chest, choking on his own blood, staining his lips a deep crimson as it rolled from the corner of his mouth. He could still feel the heat of his life blood on his hand as he pushed them against the knife wound, salty tears mingling with those on Thomas's face as he begged for life, asked Athos the innocent questions full of pain and fear that no older brother should ever have to answer as they watch someone they love die. Watched helplessly as his little brother breathed his final, choking breath, saying the name of the murderess he loved with all his heart and tearing his entire life apart in a moment. For a part of Athos died with his little brother on that floor of that home, clung to his soul as it left his body and drifted into the unknown place where all anima flee at the point of death.

That grief and helplessness and agony was what Athos woke to; something the world regularly greeted him with when he opened his eyes.

Slowly, Athos sat up and stretched his aching muscles, searching the darkness of his room in his slight disorientation and the bleariness of his eyes. It took him a moment to recognise his unfamiliar surroundings, the foreign space that of the inn they had stopped in during their mission to a small village outside Rouen. Rumours of a new group of bandits terrorising the town, followed by the arrival of one of the village's respected habitants had prompted the King's actions to protect his citizens and he had smartly ordered Treville to send his very best to deal with the issue, or at least scout the miscreants out. The room itself was rather barren, lacking in anything but the bare necessities of a small, boring chest of drawers, a bed and a chamber pot. It was hot when Athos sat up, shockingly so given the conditions the wet night before, and Athos allowed a frown at the suspicious rise in temperature. There was shouting outside, muffled by the heavy shutters and dirty glass but through it the Musketeer could see flickers of light, an unnatural glow that cast hazy orange shadows of the poorly painted wall. Curious, he shuffled to the window, opening the large glass panes with a twist of the brass knob before pushing out the shutters to see the first rays of dawn clouded by thick black smoke that invaded his nose with an acrid smell.

The whole village was on fire.

All around them, houses were alight and the streets were filled with screaming and panicked civilians as they rushed to put out the flames. Black smoke curled up into the air as the buildings crumbled and smouldered, throwing intense heat out and blanketing the streets in a thick, grey fog that settled itself deep into the lungs and deprived them of precious oxygen. Athos watched in horror as horses swept through the streets, their riders brandishing torches as they set alight to everything within sight and barrelled over any innocent bystanders unable to escape their path.

Athos pushed away from the window as flaming torchwood crashed through the first floor window below and bottom floor of the inn was engulfed in flame. Rushing out of his door, Athos barely had time to grab his belt and his weapons before he burst into the room opposite, starting Aramis awake as the younger Musketeer sat bolt upright in bed and pulled a musket from beneath his pillows.

"Athos?!" Aramis quickly turned the gun away from the older man "What's going on?"

"Fire!" was all the older man could cry, briefly catching Aramis throwing himself from his sheets and rushing to dress himself as he turned to the room down the hall.

His hand reached for the knob but it turned before his hand and he pulled back sharply as Porthos appeared in the doorway, hair and clothes in disarray and sword in hand, looking at him with wide panicked eyes.

"I heard shouting." Porthos explained quickly, eyes flicking up as Aramis emerged behind Athos, still shrugging on his jacket.

"The bandits must have gotten word that the King has sent men to deal with them." Athos shared his suspicion rapidly, heart thudding loudly in his chest as he became more aware of the steady rise in temperature and the smoke rising from the floorboards "They have set the village alight and the inn is going with it."

"There's a balcony outside of my window that leads down into the garden; we can escape from there!" Aramis shouted agitatedly, gesturing wildly with his arms as he leaned from his doorway with dilated eyes.

Porthos froze in dismay, eyes filled with terror as Athos looked back at him "D'Art's downstairs."

"What?"

"They didn't have enough clean rooms upstairs." Porthos gushed in a horrified gasp, already pushing past toward the staircase, now hidden by translucent grey smoke "D'Artagnan took the room downstairs."

All three hurried to the staircase, leaping down to the base only to be repelled by the roaring flames that threatened to consume them with their raging heat and tendrils of amber death. The heavy smoke tore at their lungs, sending all three into coughing fits as they squinted against the burning in their eyes and pulled their sleeves across their mouths.

"D'Artagnan!" Porthos bellowed over the crackling of the fire and the creaking of burning timber, voice hoarse with the caustic, smothering fumes.

Athos begged to hear a reply but the crackling laughter of the fire continued uninterrupted.

"Get out." Athos' voice was unrecognisable to his own ears as he automatically shed his belt and shoved it into Aramis' surprised arms, ignoring the startled looks of protest from his two companions "Get out! No use all of us dying here. I'll get d'Artagnan."

"But Athos he could be-"

"Then I will perish with him. I will not leave him alone to burn." Athos stated sternly, eyes dark in his determination as he stared Aramis' objection down "We don't have time for this! Now, get out! That's an order!"

Aramis and Porthos shared a look over Athos' head before the larger man gripped him tightly "You get d'Artagnan and yourself out alive, alright? Or we'll drag you back from the dead and kill you ourselves."

With that sentiment, Aramis and Porthos fled back up the stairs and Athos plunged into the fire.

The flames burned his clothes and Athos could feel his skin blistering, the hairs on his arms being singed as he fought through the wall of fire armed only with his jacket. The floorboards beneath his feet groaned and grated as he traversed them, blackened by soot, pieces of the ceiling and the furniture littering the floor as he scooted through the mess. The hot air in his lungs made his insides feel as though they were liquefying, combing with the smoke like a noose around his neck, strangling him and sapping the energy from his limbs. It was dizzying in its intensity as he stumbled through the chaos, eyes finally spotting a door, blocked by a fallen beam of burnt timber. Athos pushed himself harder, resolute in his desire to escape the cleansing flames with his fellow Musketeer.

He would not lose another lifetime of memories, another smile, another laugh, another brother. Especially not to the power that d'Artagnan had pulled him from before; the boy he had known for only weeks whom had leapt into the hungry fire with no thought for his own life, who had pulled Athos from the fire and almost sacrificed himself to do so.

When his hands touched the fallen plank he was thankful for his habitual garment of thick gloves, feeling the searing heat even through the protection as he dug his fingers into the wood. Grunting with the exertion, Athos lifted with all his might; feeling the tug in the muscles of his shoulders and the tension in his back as he pulled the weight aside. Athos gasped for breath that was no longer there, numb fingers struggling with the latch on the door for a moment before he pulled it out toward him, ignoring the pain flaring through his body and the dark crawling into his vision. In his disorientation he almost tripped over the lump that fell at his feet; a dark-haired young man, lips blue, face ashen. Athos' heart seized in his chest, panic opening up a flood gate of emotions as he prayed to every almighty power he may have lost or never had faith in that the boneless person at his feet was not another dead brother he would have to bury. His legs felt wobbly and he almost dropped to the floor, ready to leave himself to the flames and escape to the better world, the peace he had been promised since childhood.

The image of Aramis and Porthos flashed before his eyelids and he could almost imagine their expressions; the disappointment, the devastation, the pain. Losing one brother was enough but two, at once? Athos could never do that to them, especially given their pasts, the way that they were everything to each other; they were the only family each of them had.

Athos bent down and hurriedly pulled the boneless body over his shoulder, unable to bring himself to check the boy's condition as he balanced his weight and braved the heat of the fire once more. He staggered forward, the extreme temperature verging on overwhelming as perspiration ran down his brow and soaked into his the tattered remains of his clothes.

The rest of his journey was a blur. Athos' world was consumed by the fire, the heat, the burning pain around him and the weight of his little brother's life upon his shoulders. His first conscious thought was when he fell through the window in Aramis' room, nearly blind from the smoke that billowed out of the small inn, coughing and gasping for breath as d'Artagnan tumbled from his shoulder to land beside him. Exhausted, Athos was unable to move his limbs, drifting in and out of consciousness before he felt arms grip him tight and pull him from the balcony into the garden and the fresh air-refreshing and painfully cool against his feverish skin—as the house collapsed in into a whirlwind of flames with a loud crash and the cracking of ancient wood. Time blurred and Porthos' face was floating above his own, Aramis' voice faint in his ears as he moved out of his vision.

"D'Art-" the short syllable had him curling into himself with a crippling coughing fit as Porthos rubbed his back gently and coaxed him back to lie flat, bring a cup of clean water to his lips that soothed his ragged throat.

"He's alive, Athos. You saved him."

Athos managed a weak grin before he gave in to the darkness of unconsciousness.


	3. Porthos

**Hiya! Another chapter right here! Thank you for all your amazing reviews and please send me more, they always brighten up my day when I read them! Sorry for the lack of a teaser but I was tired and badly sunburnt (I have the worst tan/burn lines in the shape of sleeves and my face is bright red save for the rings around my eyes where I was wearing sunglasses-not a good look) thanks to my sixth form induction day. Enjoy this chapter with our darling Porthos!**

Night had fallen hours before, leaving the world a twilight grey beneath the heavy, rolling clouds that promised another brutal thunderstorm and the air vibrated with malicious intent. The wet season had meant that the water had drained the colour from the world, washed it away like a stain to leave a land of bleak, forbidding tones and shades. Porthos could not deny the uneasiness in his gut, the instinctual fear that had him crouched low to the floor, keen eyes scanning all around for the source. He paused, his eyes lingering on a puddle, the reflective surface shaky and rippling as the ground rumbled and moved almost imperceptibly under his feet. The reality of the danger took Porthos' breath away before he was gripping the closest shoulder savagely and shaking the surprised occupant awake.

"Up! Move!" Porthos cried in alarm, voice almost catching in his desperation as he shook Athos awake, hearing the booming crash of a tree falling horrifyingly close.

Athos' instincts had him up and ready in seconds, trusting Porthos and knowing that his tone of voice meant they were lethal danger. They exchanged a glance before diving for the other two, who were rousing more slowly and Porthos could not help but notice the escalation of movement under his feet and the growls transformation into a roar above them; heart thudding in his chest as he pulled Aramis up without a care and wrenched him away. Athos had already tagged onto the danger as he dragged d'Artagnan by one arm over the edge of the ridge they were using as camp and dived beneath it, almost causing the boy to tumble face first over the edge before his nimble feet caught up.

Porthos managed to glance over his shoulder as the torrent of the mud appeared behind them, the slurry laden with the remains of fallen trees and beaten boulders as it raced toward them, the Musketeers' feet slipping across the slick ground as they tried to outrun the brown flood of death. The two were just about to follow their companions to hide behind the small protective of barrier when the earth beneath them gave away with a squelch and they were swept up amongst the saturated debris. Porthos' grip on Aramis' arm was lost with a strangled cry as he was smashed into by another trunk and torn from his best friend's grasp.

"Porthos! Aramis!" d'Artagnan's panicked cries were lost over the beating of the suffocating brown liquid and the fragments of wreckage and detritus that tumbled down the incline with him.

He was going to die.

That was his last thought before he was pulled beneath the muck and sludge and lost to a world of darkness.

Porthos was honestly surprised when he returned to consciousness. There was no pleasantness about it, not much gratitude to the powers above. Just surprise; pure and simple. That was until he realised that he _hurt. Everywhere_. There was a raging fire in one leg, a debilitating pain that would have had him screaming had he the energy or the space in his airway. The muddy water in his lungs had him choking and coughing, ravaging his already abused lungs and broken ribcage-because if some of his ribs weren't broken he would be having serious doubts about his pain tolerance. It took Porthos a couple of minutes to fully awaken and to become aware that the previous droplets of rain on his face were in fact salty .

His ears finally seemed to activate themselves and he could just make out some quiet muttering, choky and hoarse with emotion.

"You're going to be okay, Porthos." the familiar voice assured him, but the mysterious person seemed to be reassuring himself more than the injured man "I'm going to get you out of here and then we'll meet up with the others and get you all fixed up, okay? I won't even glare at you if you call me' whelp', or if you do that stupid thing with my hair…just…just stay with me."

There was a large, pained groan from somewhere near his legs and the determined Muskteer managed to open his eyes enough to see a dirty figure in tattered clothing, lifting a thick trunk almost twice his own size from across Porthos' legs and staggering as he lifted it away. It landed with a crash somewhere else and the shadow standing over him turned, panting heavily from the effort that impressed even Porthos, tanned skin coated in muck, eyes bloodshot and dark hair tangled as he dropped down to his knees.

"D-d'Art…"it was a gasp, barely above a whisper and filled with pain but Porthos was proud of his attempt all the same as he watched the boy shaking with barely contained sobs.

The young Musketeer froze, like a statue with a picturesque look of hope and terror on his face, before his head slowly swivelled and his eyes met Porthos' and suddenly d'Artagnan was leaning over Porthos, hands hovering with uncertainty as though fearing Porthos would break like a fragile china doll beneath his hands.

"You're…awake!" the boy sounded so young and unsure of himself Porthos almost felt like he should hug him, if he could move his limbs "Oh my G-how'd you feel? Where does it hurt? Wait…are you supposed to talk?"

Porthos groaned weakly, ignoring d'Artagnan's inquiries with the one thing that truly bothered him "'Mis?"

"A-Athos is looking after him…he's hurt but n-not like you. He managed to grab onto one of the overhanging tree branches. You…you looked _dead_, Porthos. I didn't-"

"S'gonna take more than a mudslide to get rid of me…whelp." Porthos smiled, a lopsided, twisted grin that hurt but the reward of seeing a smile spread across the younger man's face made it worth it.

"Yeah…yeah." d'Artagnan's hand gave Porthos' a quick, warm squeeze before the boy hastily wiped the tears from his eyes and replacing it with a humorous expression "Okay…I guess the question is what part of you do I try to treat first? At least till Aramis can get off his arse and do it himself."

That was when Porthos knew everything was going to be fine.


	4. D'Artagnan

**Thank you for all the awsome reviews, they are so lovely and I'm so glad you're enjoying my series. Thanks especially to Rhesa (would have PM'd but you're a guest so...) thanks for the words of confidance and understanding, my error last chapter should have been corrected and it was unintentional. D'Art is gorgeous and I was rather distracted by him at first too. Glad you're still reading at for taking the tme to review every chapter (along with the rest of you lovely, brilliant, fantastic, amazing people!). If any of you wanted to see Aramis' and Athos' reactions to dicovering him alive I'm afraid that you may be disappointed. I'm heading to Kenya on Tuesday (which is why I've been posting an already written story in the days before to satiate any hungers you may have for fluff and whump from me for two or so weeks) and so if I read your stuff (I'll have reviewed if I have because I believe in giving as good as you get)you might not hear word of me for awhile but I will wait to read with baited breath! I'm still posting the last chapter tomorrow which will kind of be my goodbye send off piece filled with hugs and brotherly cuteness (I hope) but then I have to get packing! Anyway, enough of me rambling on about how much I love you guys, please enjoy!**

The Captain had sent the four to escort a very important letter from the King to Duke Comtois of Franche-Comte, a province in eastern France on the border of Switzerland. It was a beautiful region of France, with both flat, grassy land perfect for agriculture and rolling hills dotted with magnificent houses and villas. The weather had been just as idyllic; if the four Musketeers had been on a leisurely stroll, but instead the ride had been hellish in the warm climate, with little time for food, water or rest and it had taken its toll on even the toughest of soldiers. When they had finally reached their destination, the architectural beauty of the old with its trimmed topiaries and neat gardens, had been lost on the exhausted Musketeers as they staggered into the shade of the entranceway, panting and sweaty.

The Duke himself had greeted them, looking rather nervous to having received a notice from the sovereign on such unexpected circumstances, had hastily offered his rooms to the four so they could rest before setting off back to Paris at dawn with a reply. D'Artagnan dreaded the upcoming journey and found himself daydreaming of a hot, steamy bath to wash away the grime and perspiration that clung to his skin. The quiet conversation between the nobleman and Athos was of little importance and d'Artagnan found his tired mind distracted by the sophisticated and ornate furnishings within the marbled walls as they ambled toward the stairs. Finally, their host turned to all of them with a pleasant smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"I'm afraid I must excuse myself as there are matters I must now attend to with the deliverance of this letter. Please rest, my servants will escort you to your rooms and I will have the cooks prepare a meal; you must be hungry after your arduous journey."

Beside d'Artagnan, Porthos' stomach rumbled in agreement and d'Artagnan was unable to hold back a quiet snigger as Aramis fought to keep the smirk off his face. The Duke and Athos seemed unaware of the source of their amusement as Athos politely thanked him for his generosity. The Duke nodded once, turned, then left with a click of his heels on the polished stone. Athos turned and raised a rather unimpressed eyebrow-which made d'Artagnan blush under his gaze and Porthos grin-before the servants interrupted the silent scolding, gesturing with their heads respectfully bowed towards the upstairs.

The guest bedrooms the Musketeers were assigned were fortunately dotted along the same corridor towards the back of the house; each room accompanied by its own private toilet facilities, a blessing that d'Artagnan had yet to experience given his upbringing and his home in the garrison, as both had required d'Artagnan to share. The rooms were quaint but had little character, with anodyne hues and motifs to match the bland, tasteless beds and cabinets and overall the rooms lacked the comfort and cosiness that d'Artagnan cherished. However, it mattered little when he dropped down onto his mattress with an exhalation of pure, unadulterated bliss as the soft fabric moulded to the contours of his body. The other three watched his collapse with fond smiles before bidding him goodnight and retreating to their own havens with the safe intention.

The sun had set by the time the Gascon emerged from his bathroom, body sweet-smelling and muscles relaxed as he tightened the towel around his waist and grinned at the intense, rich redolence of dinner, positioned neatly on the dresser. After absorbing the entire bowl of savoury stew, the warmth in his belly left d'Artagnan feeling drowsy and he languidly toppled into bed and curled into the sheets to fall into an earnest hibernation.

D'Artagnan's return to consciousness was so slow and lethargic that he was almost convinced it was a dream. The vividness of the hallucination though convinced him otherwise as heavy, calloused hands gripped his body and there was a moment of weightlessness as he was lifted onto a meaty shoulder and hung painfully there. The deadness in his limbs refused to lift and it took him almost an age in his stupefied state to realise he had been drugged. Even with the startling conclusion, his body remained unresponsive as he was carried out of the room in the half-light, his eyes unable to see anything but the back of his captor's jacket. The pungent body-odour of sweat and decades of unwashed filth made his eyes mist and his nose twitch as the man slowly descended a small staircase at the back of the house, moving remarkably stealthily for a man of his size and stature.

"Is he awake?" a timid voice inquired as they reached the bottom and d'Artagnan managed to roll his head limply round to see the Duke cowering in the doorway, a chink of moonlight filtering from the back window to light his chin.

"Does it ma'er." the baritone note made the man's body shake, the vile sound making d'Artagnan's blood more like ice water "Kid's not gonna be alive much longer anyway. You paid us to make 'em disappear, we'll make 'em disappear."

Comtois nodded nervously, fingers gripping the edge of the doorframe as if he expected d'Artagnan to leap up and attack him as though he had just been playing possum "What are you going to do with them?"

"Better ya don't know. Then ya can deny it later." d'Artagnan could practically see the smile on the man's face and wished he could fight back but his body remained motionless.

"Gaston!" a fierce whisper echoed from the top of the stairs and both men swivelled to look up the stairs, d'Artagnan's head nearly colliding with the bannister.

"Wha' is it, Thierry? Be quiet an' getta move on!"

The angry retort barely restrained below an unobtrusive level "The big one's gonna be a problem;can't carry 'im on ma own!"

"Alright!" Gaston answered with a frustrated growl, arm tightening around d'Artagnan's waist almost imperceptibly with his foul mood as the drugged young man's heart skipped a beat with fear "Let me dump this one in the cart and I'll be up!"

Grumbling to himself, Gaston stormed through the open back door into the chilly night air, his path revealed under the silvery shine of moonlight, footsteps crunching on the gravel as he hurriedly walked to a large wooden cart and thoughtlessly discarded d'Artagnan's body like a child bored with its toy. D'Artagnan gasped as the air was knocked from his lungs by the force before he was rolled unceremoniously onto his back and his hands were grabbed roughly, thick rope coiling around his wrists and biting into the sensitive skin. The oppressive shadow lifted with the receding crunch of stones underfoot as Gaston returned to the house and d'Artagnan was left, paralysed, staring at the navy blue sky embroidered with glittering argentine stars that shone with the combined beauty of a thousand priceless diamonds.

The bite of the cool breeze through of his thin clothes stung and the splintered wood pressing into his back was uncomfortable but the worst was the overwhelming flood of hopeless that threatened to drown the Gascon, crushing him with its unrelenting weight. The frustration and his lack of movement combined with the potent drug left him feeling drained and betrayed as his pitiful attempts to gain control of himself failed him. His thoughts drifted to the life not yet lived, the birthdays he would miss, the woman he loved and the brothers he might die beside. Pain flared deep in his chest and he was faintly aware of a light tear rolling down his numb cheek, the smiling faces and joyous memories seeming to crumble and fade before his eyes. This may be his last night on Earth, his last night shared with the men he admired, loved and cherished like family, like brothers.

A noise cut through his sad thoughts, the distant sound registering as a gunshot before there was a pained shout from somewhere outside his vision. The sound of running feet on the gravel made him freeze in terror and his heart thudded in his chest, blood pounding in his ears.

"D'Artagnan!"

Athos' voice was desperate and crystal clear in the silence of the night and d'Artagnan could hear his boots skidding on the ground as Athos spun round, searching for him, breathing ragged.

"D'Artagnan!" he cried again, more panicked this time as his footsteps became louder and the Gascon wished he could call out to him but his stiff jaw only responded with a slight gush of air "D'Artagnan!"

More noises joined the fray as the sound of dragging feet joined in and Aramis' strained voice, thick with obvious exertion, called out "Athos! Over there!"

Within a few moments, the familiar figure of the eldest Musketeer leapt adroitly onto the cart and Athos leant over d'Artagnan with a worried expression as he pressed his gloved fingers to his pulse.

"Can you hear me, D'Artagnan?"

Using what little energy the young man had, d'Artagnan managed to make an audible groan of affirmative as Athos sagged in relief, head bowing as he rocked back on his heels for a moment before meeting d'Artagnan's bleary eyes once more.

"You're going to be alright. Just stay awake." he commanded with a soft tone that betrayed his anxiety.

Athos turned and reached out, helping pull another larger shadow into the cart as Aramis clambered up after; gasping for breath and looking exhausted.

"I don't think I could have carried Porthos much farther." Aramis puffed out, leaning on his knees as Athos pulled Porthos slightly responsive body further up before climbing over to the seat at the front "I think he needs to lose some weight."

"I c'n still hear you, 'Mis. Jus' 'cause I can't punch you right now…"

Aramis grinned at him, turning his head around towards the manor "Let's get you two out of here and then you can threaten me to your heart's content."

The horse in front was already moving as Athos took control with ease born of practice, guiding the creature through the back gates and out onto the country roads. The medic fell to a crouch to balance himself, moving to d'Artagnan's side with his usual charming smile though his eyes relayed the concern inside.

"Hey, d'Art. Are you alright?"

The drained Musketeer managed to hum a positive reply and Aramis looked pleased by the response, placing a comforting hand on d'Artagnan's chest before gaze locked onto his bound wrists and his fingers rushed to undo the painfully tight knots.

"Tell the lad wha's h'ppening, 'Mis." Porthos drawled sleepily from his propped up position "Pr'bably drivin' 'im mad bein' unable to do anything."

Trust Porthos to know exactly what was going on in d'Artagnan's head.

"Right. It seems the letter the Duke received wasn't entirely to his liking and so he wished to remove the letter and its messengers-they of course being us- from the picture. I would call it escapism since the King's mysterious message would have eventually made its way here even had they disposed of u-"

"Focus, 'Mis. Rambling."

Aramis glanced away for a moment to glare at Porthos "The Duke drugged our dinners with some kind of sleeping draft that deadens the nerves. I have a…lady friend…who provided me with a delightful dinner before we left so when I tasted something off I decided to indulge myself. Athos…why didn't you have dinner?"

Aramis' head snapped up to look at their leader who called over his shoulder "I had my suspicions but since they were unfounded and based on my gut reaction I did not wish to ruin your own appetites and deny you a decent meal."

"N'xt time, don't bother with our feelings or our stomachs." Porthos groaned agonisingly, hand coming up to his head "S've me the headache."

"Anyway, Athos and I heard voices and came out of our rooms to find someone trying to kidnap poor Porthos here. We took him down and then then second one when he came in. That was when we discovered your door was open and your room was empty. Naturally we feared the worst, came running outside-with me dragging Porthos along-and you know the rest."

"Enough talking, Aramis." Athos stated from the front, quiet and laced with tiredness "D'Artagnan must be tired. Let him rest."

Aramis smiled at the suggestion and d'Artagnan could finally see the dark bags under his eyes as his fond gaze turned on him "Athos is right. Sleep now, we'll watch over you."

Despite the protest weighing heavy on his tongue, that simple reassurance made his eyelids flutter shut as if of their own accord and d'Artagnan floated off into a peaceful sleep.


	5. Safe

**Here it is, my final chapter before I fly to a foreign country for two weeks with no connection to the internet (boo hoo :( ) A shorter chapter but filled with (hopefully) adorable brotherly fluffiness. Just cause I want them to show a cuter, more vulnerable side with one another. Enjoy and if you haven't already, please leave a goodbye review as an overall comment on the story and whether I should do something similar in the future. I hope you enjoy and have a great few weeks! Oh and keep writing! I have a feeling I'm going to be suffering through some withdrawal symptoms by the end of my trip because fanfiction is the world's mos addictive drug.**

Porthos and Athos followed without a change in their pace but d'Artagnan dawdled on the doorstep, looking round nervously inside before slowly stepping in and shutting the door quietly behind him.

"Shouldn't we go back to the garrison and report to Treville?" the Gascon asked curiously, creeping down the corridor into the main body of the house; eyes scanning the bare walls and bleak furniture as he entered the living quarters.

"The Captain is expecting us tomorrow." Athos informed him stoically, turning his head to face the younger man as Aramis hurriedly rushed upstairs, practically dragging Porthos by one arm "As long as we check in for debriefing, the Captain will be fine with the arrangement."

"The mission ain't too serious anyway so we don't need to tell 'im right away." Porthos' voice called from the top of the rickety, wooden staircase.

"Enough talk about work!" Aramis' tired whine sounded from further in the house before footsteps echoed on the landing above their heads "I need my beauty sleep and I haven't slept in days. It's not easy being the most irresistible bachelor in all of Paris!"

Athos made a frustrated sound and tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling as if playing for some kind of divine intervention before gesturing for d'Artagnan to head upstairs. Porthos was leant against the banister waiting for them, grinning at d'Artagnan's wide eyed look.

"First time you've been in Athos' house, isn't it lad? This is like a second home for the rest of us; only reason it's kinda tidy is 'cause Aramis won't stand for Athos leavin' empty bottles around the place."

D'Artagnan frowned in confusion as he reached the top of the stairs, the boards creaking under his feet at the additional weight "I thought Athos lived at the garrison with the rest of the Musketeers?"

"I do." Athos said calmly, squeezing passed the two and walking calmly t toward where Aramis' shadow was disappearing through an open door.

"Athos doesn't like all the fuss of bein' around everyone all the time." Porthos explained with a warm smile "So he has this little bolt hole so he can drink himself into oblivion in private. Treville doesn't particularly want to see us draggin' a drunken Athos back at obscene times in the mornin' anyway."

D'Artagnan nodded mutely—from a combination of exhaustion and surprise—and Porthos wrapped his arm around the younger man's shoulder and led him over to the room at the end of the landing, the door wide open to allow candlelight to flicker through. The room itself was a stark contrast to the Spartan house, with lavish furnishings, cosy chairs and a huge bed with fine sheets fit for an army that someone had obviously spent an inordinate amount of time choosing. It practically screamed 'Aramis' and Porthos laughed at the expression on the Gascon's face as he looked around the room.

"Aramis was a little overzealous with the décor." Athos complained with a slight wince, his own eyes skimming the design and obviously trying to guess d'Artagnan's own conclusions as he shucked off his jacket and boots in the corner "Unfortunately I was rather inebriated when he asked my permission and I foolishly granted it. Though I expect that was the plan."

"What can I say? I know you all too well, Athos. You were never going to agree otherwise." Aramis beamed sounding prideful, lounging in a starfish shape across the bed in only his underclothes, eyes closed and a blissful expression on his face.

Porthos stalked forward, muscles tensed as he went to jump onto the bed "Move over, 'Mis, and stop hogging all the sheets!"

"Shoes off!" Aramis ordered with a face as he sat bolt upright to hold off the larger man "You are not getting in here with me with those dirty boots on!"

"Jeez, 'Mis. Lighten up." Porthos moaned in reply, tossing off his dirty jacket and kicking his mucky boots into the corner of the room before Aramis obligingly shifted for him to drop down.

Athos rolled his eyes before elegantly moving over to the other side of the bed and sitting down, lying back onto the pillows with a quiet exhalation of delight. He eagerly squirmed on the mattress to get comfortable as Aramis snuggled up close against him, seemingly unaffected by the closeness as they shut their eyes. Porthos pushed up against them, sitting further up so his arm was above Aramis' head and the taller man's side was pressed against Aramis' back. D'Artagnan stood a few feet from the bed, rocking on his heels as he watched the display with an unusual anxiousness brewing in his stomach.

"What are you waitin' for?" Porthos cracked an eye lazily open to look up at him "Climb in."

D'Artagnan was startled by the question and nearly blushed, chin dropping to his chest as he awkwardly fiddled with his sleeve "I-I wouldn't want to intrude, I'll just head back-"

"Stop being shy and get in, d'Art. Trust me, you'll never sleep better than when with these two." Aramis called over his shoulder, though he didn't roll over to face him.

D'Artagnan hesitantly began to pull away his signature leather jacket, brow furrowed in obvious unease, carefully removing his boots and purposefully taking as long as possible.

Eventually Aramis made a long exasperated sigh and sat up, rousing Athos in the process as all three stared at their youngest "If you would, Porthos. I'd rather not die of old age and we know how grouchy Athos gets when he's tired…more grouchy anyway."

Athos growled an objection that rather backed up the younger man's argument and proceeded to swat Aramis around the back of the head fondly, a tired expression on his face. Porthos groaned at the prospect of moving and then lunged at d'Artagnan with a speed mystifying given his size, seizing the boy by the arm and flipping him over and onto the bed with a move more designed for the battlefield than the bedroom. As soon as d'Artagnan dropped heavily on the mattress, Aramis embraced him, entangling their limbs together and effectively trapping him on the bed.

"You hurt?" Porthos murmured in slight concern, checking the boy over lazily before pulling the pillow under his arm and turning round to block off any chance of escape "Good. Now go to sleep."

"Don't bother arguing with them." Athos advised softly as he settled back into his original position, Aramis's back pressed against him as his eyes slid closed "They always insist on sleeping with brothers."

It was both a praise and an explanation and about as cute and sappy as Athos was going to get ever, probably brought on by his exhaustion. The other two had faintly surprised expressions on their faces, d'Artagnan's eyes wide at the show of affection but they quickly recovered when Porthos mussed d'Artagnan's hair armourously.

"You're surprisingly cuddly." Aramis mused quietly, his breath warm on d'Artagnan's neck as the boy's stiff muscles relaxed and he invited the warmth and closeness of the four.

"Thanks…?" D'Artagnan whispered with a raised eyebrow and Porthos' arm drifted up to flick Aramis in the face.

"Shut up, 'Mis."

Athos yawned "I agree."

"Just jealous that I get to hug, d'Artagnan."

"Aramis, go to sleep!" the three others in the bed chorused and Aramis huffed quietly before settling down.

In a few minutes, all four were snoring softly, locked together in a warm embrace as they slept in total peace.

**Fini.**

**Hope you enjoyed this series!**


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